


Third Eden

by OlwenDylluan, Quilly



Series: Quodlibets [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Adulting is hard, Clubbing, Drinking, Gen, Growing Up, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Kedreeva's Wiggleverse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Trauma Recovery, does it count as kid fic if the kids are snakes but so is one of the parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23770906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlwenDylluan/pseuds/OlwenDylluan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: Anthony Freddie Bentley Fell-Crowley, Junior, is ready to move on with his life.Direct sequel to the Round and Round arc of The New Arrangement, all about healing, self-forgiveness, and growing things.
Series: Quodlibets [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589863
Comments: 40
Kudos: 71
Collections: Wiggleverse





	1. Finding Home

**Author's Note:**

> It occurred to Olwen and I that after the Heck that we put Junior through in The New Arrangement (chapters 1-13 specifically), he needed a break. Welcome to the Soft Wholesome Boys Zone, not exclusive to Boys but always Soft, Wholesome, and Good. This is where Junior's recovery is mostly going to take place, but also soft fun stories about the adult snabies that don't have a place in TNA, which is more about Rosa and the difficulties of adulthood and finding yourself and such.
> 
> Like TNA, this is mostly plotless and rambling and will likely divorce itself from a linear chronology after a while, but those of you who were waiting for Junior to get back on his feet...hope you enjoy what's coming!

Ultimately, the pub crawl was Datura’s idea.

“The Sprite can drive herself, and even if she couldn’t, I can sober myself up between trips,” Datura assured Junior, who frowned. “Come on, it’ll be nice to get out of the house and get some fresh air.”

“In pubs?” Junior raised an eyebrow.

“Fresher than your room,” Datura replied, which Junior had to concede was true. Ever since the…unpleasantness…he hadn’t returned to uni and hadn’t much left his room at all. His mood was vastly improved, all things considered, but the most he’d been able to tell Father and Azirafather was that Hastur had been visiting his dreams, nothing about the forced jobs for Hell. It hadn’t seemed like the thing to mention, with Rosa’s whole deal still stinging fresh in their minds. Junior could be in the same room as Father without his skin crawling too much and that was enough for him. He had no idea of next steps or future plans. He left his self-inflicted isolation to shower and eat and then to retreat back in to sleep. Junior wasn’t stupid, he knew Azirafather was still touchy and worried and Father was too unsure to mention what he thought of Junior’s habits. Maybe going out would do him some good.

Junior stuck to beer at the first couple of pubs, which Datura commented on and Junior offered no further information about. Beer was…safe. Beer didn’t burn the throat and warm the chest the same way certain other things Junior had forced himself to drink before had. It didn’t taste like copper on the back of his tongue.

“Alright,” Datura rolled their eyes, “try this. Tastes a sight better than beer.”

Junior took the colorful cocktail they handed him at the third bar with trepidation, then had to admit that maybe cocktails were more his thing, fruity-sweet and masking the harder stuff lurking within. He had four of them and was feeling pleasantly unsteady by the time Datura pulled on his arm to leave.

“M’drunk,” he said happily as Datura piled him into the Sprite.

“I know,” Datura grinned, and slapped his hand away from the seatbelt buckle. “That w’s the point.” They poured themself into the driver’s seat, then patted the Sprite’s steering wheel. “Go—g’on, young lady, drive us ‘round.”

The Sprite made a demure sort of revving sound and puttered off down the country lanes, going not nearly fast enough for Junior’s taste (or Datura’s, for that matter), but the cool night breeze on his face was pleasant. He had no idea where they were, but knew it wasn’t home; he didn’t know these trees and fields, though he liked them well enough. The moon was obliging and bright as they sat, nice and pickled, in the Sprite’s comfortable seats.

“Thought you needed a break,” Datura said over the wind and the car sounds, and Junior snorted.

“Did,” he agreed. “Did—‘ja know Hastur got me to kill a guy?”

“What?” Datura asked, too sharply, but Junior wasn’t ready to match their level of sudden soberness yet and retreated further into the fuzziness, smiling.

“Not sure I did,” he said, “but—but was close, maybe. Car accident. Little too conve—convent—easy.” He laughed. “Dunno what happened to ‘m. The guy. Hospital, last I heard.”

“Anthony,” Datura said, and Junior shook his head.

“Got a guy to cheat on ‘is partner,” Junior said, “’n—‘n I stole stuff. From m’flatmates.” He laughed again and it was uglier, a little too real. “F-father killed a lot of people. Ind’rectly. Saw all his temptations, too. S’why Hastur wanted me. Look like Father. Practically jus—jus’ like ‘m. Same person. Made my whole ‘dentity after ‘m.” He laughed again and it was closer to crying. “Anthony Freddie Bentley Fell-Crowley, Junior. Picked it m’self. Wanted to be jus’ like Father. Made a mess of it.”

Datura reached over and gripped Junior’s hand, and Junior had to marvel at their similarities, how if Datura wasn’t wearing black nail varnish he wouldn’t be able to tell their fingers apart at all. So similar, yet… “How’d you do it?” he slurred.

“Do what?”

“Be…you,” Junior gestured with his free hand. “Y’re kinda a mini-me of Father too. How’d you be all you instead of me?”

Datura shrugged. “Just am,” they said. “You…you know you’re not a copy of Father, right? You’re your own person.”

Junior mumbled and shrugged. Datura’s fingers tightened.

“I mean it,” they said. “I—”

The Sprite rolled to a stop, and Datura and Junior both blinked at it, then at their surroundings. Junior squinted. Were they in a field? No liquor in a field, silly car. He opened his mouth, but Datura beat him.

“Look,” they said, and disentangled their hands from his and got out of the car. Junior fumbled with the seatbelt until Datura took pity on him and bundled him out of the passenger seat. They walked him a few feet away from the car, then gestured. “Look. This is a pretty big piece of land for sale. Great big hill in the middle of it.”

“Hill,” Junior nodded, taking in the structure. “Hobbit hill.” He giggled. “Would make a g-great hole.”

“Could have a greenhouse attached,” Datura nodded. “Garden growing out front. Flowers over the top of the hill.”

Junior squinted again, this time at Datura. “Eh?”

“Wouldn’t take much work at all, the hill’s already here,” Datura said, and they looked excited. “A few miracles during construction to make sure it wouldn’t collapse, some expert carpentry—Junior, you could live here. You could really make a home here, if you wanted.”

“Got a home,” Junior mumbled.

“You’ve got a hidey-hole,” Datura objected, then snapped their fingers. Junior found himself disgustingly sober and groaned. Datura grabbed his shoulders and turned him to face them, their face glowing. “Listen. You need to get out of Father and Azirafather’s house, it’s not healthy for you there right now. You need to be on your own, making yourself into whoever you want to be, not who you think Father either is or isn’t. It’ll—it’ll help, with the whole. Thing. You had going on.”

Junior stared at them. Then he stared back at the plot of land with clearer eyes. There was a singular tree near the hill, which could prove troublesome, but if done carefully it would make a nice picnic spot. There was plumbing to consider, of course, couldn’t have a garden without a way to water it…and for a second Junior could see it, a lovely round earth-sheltered home straight from Azirafather’s books, a sprawling mess of wildflowers on the roof, hardy vegetable patches for a front yard and the more delicate flowers taking shelter in a greenhouse nearby. Big round green front door. Maybe dig a pond in the back for taking dips in the summer.

Junior looked around for the “for sale” sign and took a picture of it with his phone. Then he put his phone in his pocket and hugged Datura fiercely, knocking the breath from them with an amused “oof” and maybe crying a little into their shoulder.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Any time,” Datura murmured back, hugging him back just as tight. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that without any help. We’re here when you need us. Whenever you feel ready.”

Junior nodded, his throat closing up. “I have to call a contractor,” he said, and felt Datura’s smile as they squeezed him.

“Ready to go home?” they asked.

“Yeah,” Junior nodded, looking at the field. “Yeah, I think I am.”


	2. Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case y'all have been keeping up with The New Arrangement and wondering what exactly Junior has been up to...this is what he's been up to. In a weird way, writing Junior's steps towards recovery has been cathartic for me personally during these uncertain times. Enjoy some gentle growth and progression.

In between working on his new property, Junior slept.

Finding a contractor to build a hobbit hole took some creative Googling and the words “money is no object.” Money and means were the first things Father taught him how to miracle on his own at age…well, age wasn’t exact with them, but by secondary school sounded about right. Junior felt pretty good about the idea of sustainable housing, though he didn’t want to think about the idea that the hill had to be bulldozed into and rebuilt. He wasn’t there for that part. He was asleep.

The idea of Junior taking long drives and being gone for hours and hours at a time was already a precedent before Junior bought the lot, but it didn’t smooth the line between Azirafather’s eyebrows whenever Junior stumbled in the door after dark, carefully cleared of all traces of plaster and paint and dirt. He wanted it to be a surprise, after all. Or at least not common knowledge. Datura knew, but Datura was giddy over the idea of getting to keep a secret for once. Junior didn’t bother trying to correct them on the difference between a secret and a life-threatening pact. His days of destroying bright things were behind him.

He picked out fixtures and he perused tile samples and he told Father he was “out” when asked. He washed the Bentley and used the brand of wax she preferred and told her to keep the secret, too. He tried to smile for Azirafather when he brought in breakfast one morning, and he nodded along nicely to Azirafather’s assertions that if something was still bothering him, he only need bring it to his parents’ attention and they could work through it. There was no way for Junior to tell them that the problem was himself, the little germinating weed of darkness that was still cropping up in unexpected ways.

In the fall Junior directed the workers putting together his greenhouse and looked over at the flowers he’d picked up from the local farmer’s market, deepest burgundy mums and bright happy marigolds. At first the sight of the marigolds in particular had made him happy, but the longer Junior kept getting a glance of them from the side of his eye, the more it reminded him of how he still avoided mirrors, flashes of gold eluding their own gaze. In a moment of cruel pique he tore one of the marigold blooms right from their stems and crushed it in his hand; the pungent scent that assaulted his nose moments later cloyed like sulfur and Junior was sick on the far side of the Bentley where no one could see him. The remaining marigolds were pitched into a nearby ditch in short order.

They were somehow still alive, days later when Junior went back for them, and neither shivered nor bent disapprovingly away from him when he apologized. The marigolds went into the front window boxes and the mums bracketed the front door.

Junior made himself stare at his own face in mirrors for a long, long time, cataloguing himself: rubbing at the beard growth he didn’t remember allowing but wasn’t entirely upset with, tracing the jawline that was ever so slightly too soft to be entirely Father’s, staring into his own marigold eyes, touching the seemingly-permanent bags underneath. The day came when Junior was combing his shower-wet hair and he realized he didn’t hate how he looked, overgrown wild appearance and all. Father had never looked so disheveled, so pitiful, but…even if Junior could see the clear imprint of Father there, it wasn’t bad. Father looked like fast cars and sharp smiles and surprising angles. Junior looked like dark soil and paint water and a little bit like a red wheelbarrow, slicked with rain.

Christmas and New Year’s came and went and Junior worked a couple of long nights on the interior of the house, finishing walls and slinging paint and polishing floors. He ordered furniture. He bought dishes. He weatherproofed his greenhouse.

The first day that had the palest tinge of spring to it, Junior marched into the nearest agricultural supply store and bought tulip bulbs, vegetable seeds of every kind, and a rose bush. He’d long moved his own garden tools into the shed behind the hill, and when he came home, caked in dirt, Junior gave no explanation beyond a tired smile. He ached. It was a good ache, the kind that came from honest work and not being curled up so tightly his joints screamed.

At last…at long last, the house and grounds were finished. Junior spent a couple of chilly days soaking up the sun in his greenhouse and making signs for things, then walked the rounded rooms of his new home in satisfaction. He came to the master bedroom and paused.

The walls were white and smooth and round like the rest of the place had been, but Junior hadn’t had a clue of what to put on them. The rest of the house had been easy—vegetable and fruit patches in the kitchen, meadows and wildflowers in the halls, forest in the spare room, beaches in the bathrooms. Here, in Junior’s innermost sanctum…he wasn’t sure.

Though. He did have an idea.

Junior bit his lip. He hemmed. He hawed.

“Alright, old girl,” he said, climbing into the Bentley to go home after arranging the necessary supplies inside, “one more sleep, and then move-in day.” He ran his thumbs over the wheel. “So you’ll have to tell Father to come visit me lots, alright?”

The Bentley rumbled at this and Junior took it for approval and agreement. He let her take him to what had been his home for so long, holding his metaphorical breath for what the following day would bring.


	3. Fell End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as far out as Third Eden has been written so far; after this, it'll be soft and pastoral and low-stakes and largely plotless. Enjoy the healing and the sweetness, my friends!
> 
> For extra reference, I would recommend reading OlwenDylluan's In Which A Trip to the Farmer's Market Is Made (https://archiveofourown.org/works/23668087).

When moving day came, Junior tapped on his dads’ bedroom door bright and early to break the news.

“Hey,” he said. Azirafather looked up from his book with a bright smile, and Father stirred, grumbling. With some additional coaxing from Azirafather, Father finally sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Mghuh,” Father said, which Junior took as a greeting.

“Good morning,” Azirafather said. “What do you need?”

“Lift,” Junior said, and put his hands in his hoodie pockets. “And a tow.”

“Tow?” Father grunted.

“You’ll see,” Junior promised. “Azirafather, you can come, too, if you like. Got something to show you.”

“We’ll be along directly,” Azirafather promised, and Junior nodded and went to make sure all his boxes were secured to the trailer he’d already hitched up to the back of the Bentley. The Bentley, for her part, seemed only slightly miffed to be hauling when she was not a hauling sort of vehicle, but it would be fine. She always was.

Father exited in sweatpants tucked into his boots, Azirafather in his usual, and Junior offered the still-hot to-go cups of coffee and tea he’d already gone into the village and picked up when he was doing his last rounds. Father inhaled his as Azirafather sipped, and both stopped dead in the garage door as Junior went to slide into the Bentley’s back seat.

“Buh?” Father inquired, gesturing at the trailer.

“You’ll see,” Junior said with a smile that almost felt normal. “Get in the car and let’s go.”

His parents obeyed, and forthwith the Bentley maneuvered carefully from the driveway and out into the street with very little prompting from a still-waking-up Father. Junior gave directions, and in less than an hour, they were pulling up to the freshly-christened Fell End, looking exactly how Junior had imagined it would, from the round green front door to the squat pretty greenhouse to the tender shoots of vegetables in the front patches.

“Oh, my!” Azirafather cried. “How charming!”

“’s it yours?” Father asked, craning around in his seat to look at Junior, who was grinning more broadly now that his pride and joy was already blowing minds. Junior nodded.

“Come see,” he said, and slid out of the back of the Bentley.

Junior gave them the grand tour—the mostly-finished rounded interior of the house, and the tree with the dug-out pond beneath and the rope swing for hot days, and most especially the greenhouse, whose entrance faced the house and not the road.

“See the sign?” Junior pointed, and his parents craned their heads to read it.

“Third Eden,” Father said. “What’s that?”

“Pet project,” Junior replied, and opened up the greenhouse door to show off the explosion of flowers inside. The hobbit hole had a lovely collection of wildflowers already growing in, but inside the greenhouse were a rosebush and peonies and tulips and baby’s breath, to name a very few.

“You’re opening a florist shop,” Azirafather said, and Junior stood in the midst of his little starter seeds and beamed, rocking back and forth on his feet.

“Village has a farmer’s market that operates most of the year,” Junior said. “Reckon I’d give it a go. Might put in some fruit trees, if the vegetable side does well.”

“It’s lovely, darling,” Azirafather said warmly, his shoulders wiggling. “Are you pleased with it?”

Junior found his throat had closed up and nodded, chasing the sting of tears out of his eyes with a rough-drawn hand. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Um.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Had a…had a thought. For one of the rooms in the house. Wondered if…wondered if maybe Father could help.”

“Me?” Father frowned. “With what?”

“Had an idea for some murals on the walls,” Junior said. “Got most of it, had one more I wanted…some input with.”

“You’re the artist, son, I’m sure whatever you’ve got’ll be fine,” Father said.

“You made stars, though,” Junior protested. “Or. At least a nebula, you said. Right?”

“Yeah,” Father nodded, still looking mystified.

“I want a night sky sort of thing in my room,” Junior said, and his throat started acting up again. He coughed. “Um. Felt. Felt like a good way to, um. Bring some home with me.”

“I haven’t—well—I’m sure I could give it a shot,” Father said, sounding as shaky as Junior felt. “Might. Might be nice, to. Um.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Azirafather sniffed, his eyes already overflowing, “come here, both of you.”

Junior let himself be pulled into a crushing Azirafather hug with no protest and even went so far as to put his arm around Father, too, who put a shaking hand on his shoulder as the three of them embraced.

“Got paint inside,” Junior said. “Thought maybe we could take care of it today, if you’re up for it.”

“Yeah,” Father said, pulling back from Azirafather and ruffling Junior’s hair. “Yeah. ‘course.”

Azirafather made himself busy, despite protest, bringing in Junior’s boxes while Junior and Father retreated to Junior’s room to observe the canvas of the walls. They were smooth and white and round, which Junior thought would lend themselves rather well to a sky scene; most of the house already had a running theme of hand-painted nature scenes, meticulously detailed and painstakingly rendered on Junior’s off days. He’d been saving this project for last, along with a tub of black paint he hadn’t bothered to touch yet.

“Base first,” Father grunted, and helped pour out the black. It felt exciting to be putting such huge swathes of color on the blank walls; Junior was already feeling the creative euphoria overtake him as he put on his music and picked up a roller brush. It took them a few hours to get the black all the way down. Azirafather helped, too, but as soon as the last of the black was covering the walls and ceiling, he excused himself under the pretense of organizing Junior’s kitchen.

“You boys have fun, I’m just going to pop off and tidy up a bit,” Azirafather said. Father and Junior glanced at each other, and Junior looked away, smothering a smile.

“Okay,” he said, “what first?”

“Right,” Father said. “First. Um.” He puttered between the paint cans, then after some deliberation, picked up a bright teal. “This first.” He carried it to the driest stretch of wall, then grabbed a long-handled wide paintbrush. He studied the paintbrush, then set it aside.

“Always did my best work with my hands,” Father said, and scooped up a handful of paint and threw it against the wall. “Pass us a sponge.”

Junior obliged, though there had not been sponges in his initial supply run, and watched as Father dabbed the splotch until it looked more cloud-like, smearing edges, blurring the paint into something more ethereal.

“Grab the light blue,” he instructed. Junior did as he asked. “Big dollop across the middle.”

Junior fetched the colors and implements asked of him as an enormous nebula started to take shape under Father’s hands. When it was done, Father flitted to another section of wall, a gleam in his eyes Junior had rarely ever seen before.

“Always wanted to make this one,” Father said as he fetched the bucket of red. “Time ran out before I could, but the plans were submitted.”

“What was it like?” Junior asked. “Making nebulas.”

“Bit different from just using paint, but not too dissimilar,” Father replied as he used his fingers to get some bold swirls into the red cloud emerging onto the wall. “Had to know which elements to mix, y’know, to get the right effect, but even being careful dust can always surprise you—most of it’s light, y’know, knowing how the light’s gonna reflect off the particles if you place them just so.”

“And—how did stars work?” Junior asked, passing Father a clean sponge when he made grabby-hands for one.

“Bit different, s’more like following a recipe,” Father grunted as he swirled paint around. “Start with a gravitational pull, add four scoops of hydrogen, ignite it into helium, and watch it go. Like—like explosions, y’know, just big floating explosions drifting through space until they use up all the fuel.”

Junior stayed quiet while Father finished the second nebula, then moved on to a third, talking all the while about projects he had been a part of in the Before times. Judging by the light, it was getting well into evening. Junior pulled out the white paint and started making dots—stars, which he could have mapped in his sleep at this point, but there was something exciting about mapping unknown stars around the fictional nebulae his father was making. They could spend ages making up new constellations in here, whoever Junior happened to invite in to see. He had a good fourth of the wall done by the time he felt something tapping on his shoulder.

“Yeah?” he asked, and turned his face right into the wet paintbrush Father was holding up by his cheek.

“Gotcha,” Father grinned, and Junior wasted no time in dabbing a slash of white across Father’s nose. “Oi!”

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” Junior said cheerfully, only to receive another poke of purple in his hair. In the ensuing war, quite a lot of white paint was spattered across the wall, which was quickly salvaged into a slash of galaxy across the mural.

“There, think that’s what it needed,” Father remarked as he peeled drying white paint from his fingers.

“Not quite, needs more stars,” Junior said, and picked up a paintbrush to start flecking more stars against the darkness.

It was full dark outside by the time they finished, and Azirafather opened the door to the room with a polite tapping.

“Oh,” Azirafather sighed. “How lovely it looks in here!”

“Thanks,” Father beamed, and Junior had to agree, it looked pretty amazing. He put an arm around Father, who put his arm around Junior’s shoulders and kissed his temple. “Doesn’t look half bad.” He squeezed Junior’s shoulders. “Reckon it might chase off any bad dreams on its own.”

“If I may,” Azirafather said, and snapped. “Go on and turn the lights out.”

Junior did, and it took a moment, but he realized the walls were all softly glowing, the patterns seeming to move and shift like a real night’s sky. If he looked carefully, he could see tiny comets in the distance, leaving trails of silver dust behind them. He clenched his jaw tight around the grateful tears that had been threatening for most of the day and sniffed hard.

“Amazing,” he croaked. “I…thank you.”

“We’ll have to come visit sometime after you’re settled in,” Father said, and Junior nodded, knowing full well both of his parents could see him just fine in the dim, dim light.

“I wanted…I wanted a reminder,” Junior said. It felt easier to say this in the mostly-dark, as opposed to the many times at the kitchen table he’d had an opportunity to say something. “Of who Father was. Hastur made me watch all his temptations and it…I wanted a reminder. Of who _else_ Father was. Is.”

Both Father and Azirafather were deadly quiet and Junior was deathly afraid he’d ruined it all again. Then he felt Father’s hand gently wrap around his own.

“I’m so sorry,” Father said, as choked up as Junior felt. “I’m—spawn, I had no idea—”

“’course you didn’t, I didn’t tell you,” Junior said. He squeezed Father’s hand tight. “’swhy I was so mad, though. For a while. Hastur wanted me to do your job, and I didn’t want to, but even then Hastur made me do things you didn’t have to do, so it’s like I was worse—I was worse than you ever were and I hated every second of it.”

His other hand was immediately captured by Azirafather’s broader one, soft but strong as it had been all of Junior’s life, since the second he slithered onto it moments after hatching.

“Thank you for telling us,” Azirafather said gently. “We’ve…well, obviously, we’ve been worried, but we…didn’t want to push. Not after…your sister.”

“She helped,” Junior said, throat bobbing against his own voice. “She helped. She made him stop. I was—I was losing my mind, by Paris.”

“The mugger,” Father said, and squeezed Junior’s hand. “Hell below, kid, I thought—I thought we were losing you, that day.”

“Never said thanks for that,” Junior croaked. “For stopping me. Would’ve—would’ve gone right over the edge, if you’d let me k-kill that man.”

“S’what family does,” Father said roughly. “Stops you from doing stupid things, if we can. Helps you through if we can’t.”

“Even if you had,” Azirafather said, voice still so gentle, “nothing could make us stop loving you, Anthony. I’m so glad you didn’t have to learn that the hard way, but I hope it’s firm in your mind, how loved you are.”

Junior nodded and squeezed his parents’ hands. “Thanks for being patient,” he mumbled. “Know I wasn’t…all that easy to deal with.”

“None of you kids were a picnic,” Father said. “’cept maybe Clem, but even Clem had his challenges, growing up. Helping you lot get to that point was a privilege, spawn. Helping you now is still the greatest thing we’ve ever gotten to do.”

“And we’ve saved the world,” Azirafather remarked. Junior snorted and let himself be folded into another large three-way hug between his dads.

“Why Third Eden?” Father asked after a long moment of contented silence.

“Well, there was the first one,” Junior said, “and then…your garden. Back home. So. Third Eden’s here.”

Father made a series of choked-up noises and covered his face.

“Angelica says it sounds like a porn shop,” Junior said, which had both fathers bursting out laughing, making him grin in response.

“Well, if you ever decide to branch out, the name is perfectly suitable for all sorts of pursuits,” Azirafather said, patting Junior’s cheek. “Are you coming home—er—back to the cottage for the night, love?”

“Nah,” Junior smiled and shook his head. “Got my own place now, should probably look after it.”

“Some warning might’ve been nice,” Father said gruffly, and pulled Junior into another hug. “Proud of you.”

“Yes, ever so,” Azirafather added. Junior smiled and for the first time in a long time let himself believe it.

He came back inside after waving his parents and the Bentley off and sat at his own kitchen table, then noticed the frondy, feathery new friend sitting in a pot in the center of it. Junior blinked, then blinked quite a lot as he recognized it.

“Fennel,” he huffed, and buried his face in the delicate green leaves. From Father, no doubt, it was just like the one Junior had picked out for him as a child, back before they’d even left the bookshop. Must’ve miracled it while Junior wasn’t looking. It would do very nicely with the rest of Junior’s herbs. He stood, tucking the pot in the crook of his arm. “Come on, then, love, I’ll introduce you to the others.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do u ever picture a ginger snek bab happy in a garden and just cry


	4. On the Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait a moment, you may cry as you begin to read this, this isn't about Junior and his greenhouse!
> 
> No, in fact, it is not, but it does involve softer adult!snaby shenanigans; Olwen and I decided that Third Eden had enough room in it for all of Junior's sniblings. Where New Arrangement might have harder, heavier subject matter, Third Eden is going to be light and fluffy and all about the softer side of growing up. Please enjoy Datura and Angelica getting into exactly no trouble, even though copious amounts of alcohol have been consumed. Incredible.

Datura had been feeling a bit run-down when Angelica texted them, inviting them out for a night on the town, as it were. Junior was working on his secret house and Clem was with Rosa and Father and Azirafather were puttering about being married and retired, and all in all Datura felt quite keenly the empty space in the cottage. A drive to the city and a night with someone they didn’t get to see as much was a welcome distraction.

“Finally,” Angelica huffed once Datura knocked on her penthouse door, and Datura blinked. Angelica was wearing heels. Angelica never wore heels, and certainly never wore the tottering stiletto heels that would have made Father blush that now resided on her feet. The rest of the ensemble was just as eye-catching, leather pants and backless long-sleeved top, with her fiery hair piled to the side and winged eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man, should she so choose. Datura felt quite plain in comparison (which, they supposed, was fair play, given how often Angelica had felt lesser next to them while growing up, not that Angelica would ever admit it outside of extreme duress).

“Oh,” Datura said, “you…actually meant we were going out.”

“Yeah,” Angelica nodded, her eyes sparkling. “Did you want to borrow some stuff?”

“Nah,” Datura shrugged, and gave a subtle shoulder shimmy. Their hair tousled itself a bit more artfully and their ripped band shirt was surprised to find itself sliding off one of Datura’s shoulders (and the various food and oil stains removed themselves posthaste). Datura blinked and a smoky eyeshadow painted itself across their lids. They smirked as Angelica pouted. “I’ve got it.”

“The one time I finally think I have one up on you,” Angelica complained, letting herself out of her flat and locking it behind her.

“Never,” Datura teased. “Alright, let’s mosey. Where’re we headed?”

“Couple of places,” Angelica said. “They’re all stupid.”

“Then why are we going?”

“Cheaper tequila,” Angelica explained. Datura made a face, and Angelica laughed. “And Happy Hour.”

“Better than eighty cups of tea with Azirafather, I guess,” Datura said, and immediately felt a pang of guilt. “I mean. Not that tea with Azirafather is bad—”

“You’re young and restless like the rest of us, it’s okay,” Angelica informed them. “Come on. First round’s on me.”

Datura agreed to exactly one shot of tequila once they made it to the club, a grungy affair overrun with students from Angelica’s university. Angelica flashed her student ID and came away with the shots, plopping one into Datura’s hand.

“Bottoms up,” Angelica said, and threw back her shot. Datura did the same and shuddered. Horrible stuff, tequila, but not bad for a starter. Angelica laughed. “You are so picky!”

“When I want to drink something that tastes like paint thinner, I’ll just drink paint thinner,” Datura retorted. “Go on, get me a beer.”

“You hate beer.”

“I also hate tequila, but it hasn’t stopped me yet,” Datura said, and Angelica rolled her eyes. “Doubt this place has any decent cocktails, so beer it is.”

“Beer it is,” Angelica sighed, and ordered just that. Once they had frothy mugs of the stuff in hand, Angelica steered them to a table in the corner, miraculously free of anyone’s stuff or passed-out friends. Datura sniffed their beer and grimaced. Like yeasty vomit, this.

“Shut up and drink it,” Angelica said, taking several chugs of hers. Datura flourished their hand, pinched their nose in a most exaggerated fashion, and took a dainty sip. Better, once they couldn’t actually taste it as much.

“Right,” Datura grimaced. “So what’s—”

“Hey,” a stranger said, leaning on the table towards Datura, “wanna dance?”

Datura blinked (not that the interloper could see it, both Datura and Angelica were armed with their shades).

“No thanks,” Datura said, shrugging a shoulder. “I’m good.”

“G’on, pretty thing like you, bet you’d like a dance,” the interloper slurred, waggling their eyebrows.

“They said no, so back off,” Angelica snarled, and the interloper immediately peeled off the table and marched away like they were being dragged by puppet strings. Datura quirked a grin at their sister and took a much less theatric sip of beer. Angelica shook her head. “Idiots,” she said.

By the fourth person interrupting their conversation to ask Datura some variation of the same question, Angelica’s face was brick-red and Datura was more entertained than they had dared hope.

“How come they’re all over you, then?” Angelica whined, knocking back the last of Datura’s beer. “Come here all the time ‘n nobody ever talks t’me.”

“Thought they were idiots,” Datura said, and Angelica sighed loudly.

“They are,” she said. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want some ‘tention.” Angelica leaned her head on her hand. “We’re ‘bout the same, both redheads. M’ not even all that scrawny anym’re, got fantastic legs ‘n everything. How come they’re all wagging their stupid tongues out f’r you ‘n not me?”

“You’re joking, right?” Datura asked, and Angelica gave a mournful sort of sniff. “Aw, Gel, it’s—you know you have a…a Thing, right?”

“Thing?”

“A whole… ‘speak to me and die’ sort of thing,” Datura gestured. “Aura, or something. Like a…an apex predator. Triggers the survival instinct. Drives people off.”

“Good,” Angelica said, and then she groaned. “Not good. I mean. I wouldn’t _mind_ —getting to turn someone down might be fun. If they tried. But nobody tries.”

“Just gotta be more open,” Datura said, and grabbed Angelica by the shoulders. “Come on, sit up, that’s it. Open up the posture a bit…good. Now. Try a smile.”

A corner of Angelica’s mouth twitched.

“I’ll tickle you,” Datura threatened, and Angelica blanched. “In public and in front of your uni mates, I’ll do it. Smile.”

Angelica glared, then tried for a more genuine grin. It still looked a bit painful and forced, but it was better than her resting face, which tended towards the more intense and scowly.

“Better,” Datura said. “Tell you what, let’s make it a game.”

“Game?” Angelica perked up.

“We’ll practice here, and next bar we go to, whoever talks to the most people by the time we leave wins,” Datura suggested. “No going home with anyone, don’t have to snog or dance or anything, just…talking to people.”

“What’s the prize?” Angelica asked, looking a sight more perky than she had a moment ago; Datura deigned to ignore the beer mug that had refilled itself pretty quickly during their proposal.

“Pizza,” Datura decided. “Greasy, cheesy, delicious pizza. Loser pays.”

Datura could see Angelica’s eyes narrow behind her sunglasses as a smile spread on her face. “You’re on.”

Trust Angelica’s competitive streak to turn an evening around, Datura thought smugly.

.

“Thirteen,” Angelica said, leaning on the stool next to Datura. Datura was impressed; two hours straight of dancing and mingling and Angelica hadn’t wobbled on her heels at all, despite the new round of shots she’d started at this bar. “What’re you at?”

“Hm,” Datura said thoughtfully, and outstretched their arm, which was a patchwork of numbers (and a clever trick made it look bare and empty to potential new…friends). “Fifteen.”

“Right,” Angelica frowned, narrowing her gaze on the gyrating mass of bad decisions on the dance floor and wiping the smudged edge of her lipstick with her thumb. “Ten more minutes?”

“Sounds good to me,” Datura yawned. Honestly, they were having more fun watching Angelica mingle and be personable than they were mingling themself; Angelica’s hard time with people had been one of the more challenging developments of their shared childhood. It wasn’t shyness, that was not Angelica’s cross to bear, but awkwardness of all flavors ran rampant in their family. Angelica’s was not the cute Clem flavor of bashful social obliviousness, but rather the sharp, prickly edge of over-awareness.

It looked like Angelica was about to have it in the bag by the end of the last ten minutes, by Datura’s count, until their path of vision was blocked by a set of long legs that had even Datura leaning back a little to get the full picture. They were twins, they were dressed in complementary neon shades, and they were both grinning at Datura like they were a snack between meals. Datura grinned back.

.

“There. Sixteen,” Angelica huffed, dropping into the seat by Datura. “Sixteen godawful conversations.”

Datura looked at Angelica’s ruffled hair and reddened toes. They looked at her tired eyes and satisfied smile.

“I capped out at fifteen, wouldn’t you know it,” Datura said, subtly thumbing off the neon pink and green lip marks on the inside of their wrist. “Come on, let’s go get pizza. My treat. You did a lot of socializing tonight.”

“Never again,” Angelica groaned, and made grabby-hands at Datura as they stood. “Carry me.”

“It’s your fault for wearing those shoes,” Datura said serenely as they lifted Angelica up piggy-back style, the tips of her heels bumping against their thighs. Angelica poked at their cheek.

“What are you all smiley about, then?”

“Nothing,” Datura shrugged, still grinning. “Just. Talked to some twins earlier, while you were occupied out there. S’nice.”

“Ew,” Angelica wrinkled her nose. “At the same time?”

“Yup,” Datura smiled, popping the P.

“Ugh. Stop looking so smug about it. You’re a quintuplet, for pete’s sake.” Angelica wriggled her trapped toes. “I still won. The mighty hunter prevails.”

“Did we make new friends?” Datura asked, weaving through the crowd.

“Dunno,” Angelica shrugged. “Feels a bit pointless sometimes, you know?”

Datura did know. They shrugged back. “Better than never talking to anyone,” they said, and looked over their shoulder. “Look at Rosa.”

“Point taken,” Angelica grimaced. “To the pizza! Charge!”

“I am not charging in a crowded bar,” Datura objected, but once they were outside, they did pick up their pace a little. Just a little. Enough to make Angelica whoop in the street.


	5. Step by Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one jumped me this morning. It's been really hard this year. Please be gentle with yourselves and recognize how well you're doing just by continuing to breathe. Stay safe, stay healthy. Happy Mental Health Day, just a bit late.

Some days Junior couldn’t get out of bed. 

He knew Azirafather had this, sometimes. Father, too, but Father’s could be passed off for his long naps. When Azirafather couldn’t get out of bed, it would be Father making breakfast and Father bagging lunches and Father getting them ready for school, those who went. It would be Father washing up and Father gently shooing the rest of them outside so Azirafather could rest. Those days would entail many quiet cups of tea and soft words heard but not understood through the firm boundary of their parents’ bedroom door. Some days would end with Father gathering them all up in whatever form they chose and depositing them in his and Azirafather’s bed, where they would all chatter and wiggle and draw Azirafather from his hollow-eyed funk until he was laughing and his eyes would sparkle for a brief moment. Other days didn’t, and they wouldn’t know if Azirafather felt better until they heard him puttering about in the kitchen or the library, humming to himself.

Junior’s version, it seemed, became hazy stretches of time where the only light came from the subtle shift and glow of his galaxy walls. The plants would be fine, they always were, but Junior would spend far too long hazing in and out of lucidity, sometimes sleeping, often just existing as thoughts of obligations and mistakes and criticisms floated through his head. Even here in this home he had created for himself, he felt homesick. He missed those days where the most complicated thought in his head was what game would be coming next, what he could do to make Azirafather smile, how he could try to do that funny tongue trick Father showed them. He missed being part of a greater whole, distinct but never alone.

How does one have such a happy golden childhood and such a broken, chaotic adulthood?

Junior felt angry, whenever that thought surfaced. First, because he was so much more fortunate than any other comparable human and so much more blessed, in every sense. Second, because he didn’t know if Hastur showing up had wrecked everything, or only sped up the inevitable. He had been naïve, before. Optimistic. Excited for life, ready for its challenges, enthusiastic about making mistakes and learning from them and wringing every last drop from life he could. Now...now he wanted to rest. He wanted to slow down. He wanted...

He wanted tea, actually.

The thought of making tea was a large one, far too big to entertain. Complicated. Many-stepped. Junior had no strength in his limbs to even contemplate the process.

 _Start with sitting up,_ Father’s voice whispered, overheard from years ago by a young snake who didn’t understand. _Don’t have to do anything else. Just sit up, angel._

Sitting up. That...that could work.

Junior took deep breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth. He worked his fingers. He bent his toes. Then he took a final deep inhale, and clenched his core, and struggled upright. He leaned back against his headboard, not panting but feeling out the space, breathing. There. Sat up. Mission accomplished.

 _There,_ Father’s memory cooed. _Just right, angel, just right. Have a sip of water. It’ll make your mouth feel better._

Water. Junior looked to his bedside table, to where he kept a water cup that always forgot to go empty or stale. He reached for it, hearing how his shoulder gave muffled pops, and even though his hand shook, he took three distinct sips. He replaced the water cup and tilted his head back against the headboard, sighing. There. Cotton mouth dispelled, for the most part.

Junior watched a meteor hurtling up his wall and across his ceiling as he got used to being upright—the resettling of blood, the working of muscles that didn’t protest but felt the use they had lacked the past…however long it had been this time.

_Feel up to a quick trip to the loo? I know we can miracle it away, but it’ll make you feel better. Just a quick trip and back into bed, if you like._

Hm. Junior flexed his legs, which reported they were up to the task, and flung one leg over the edge of the bed, just a touch too far to really set his foot on the floor but feeling the leg hang in empty space was peculiar. Not bad, though. The second leg followed, then a brief scooting put Junior’s bare feet against his lovely cool floor. He sat like that for a moment. Then he groaned and creaked upright. The first step he stumbled, nearly fell back into bed. The second came easier. Then the next. Then the next. The guest bathroom was painted like a beach. The master bath, on the other hand, was a greenhouse. A specific greenhouse. Junior sat on the toilet and leaned his head against his arm on the nearby sink counter and traced his eyes over the lines of succulents and snake plants and seedlings he had painted with his own hands from memory. He had been worried about the memories being oppressive during his down moments but right now they felt warm and comforting, like his parents’ mingled laughter.

_Let me at least wash your face, angel. Don’t have to do a full bath now but let’s do your face, yeah?_

Junior’s face towel was laying on the side of the tub where it always was. Junior didn’t even have to stand up from the toilet to take the towel, run it under warm water in the sink, and then wipe at his face. He wasn’t sure if anything had actually been cleaned off but the sensations of moisture and then cool air hitting wet skin were exquisite, actually. He made a pass over his arms and the back of his neck, too, for good measure, before laying the towel aside and finishing his business. He stood up and looked at himself as he washed his hands. Longer, tousled hair and beard growth, bags under the eyes, but some color in his cheeks now.

_Feel up to sitting at the kitchen table?_

He shuffled out of his bathroom and found that the temptation to plant himself back in bed was easier to swallow down, now that he was upright and felt a little more refreshed. The kitchen wasn’t so far, really. He even found the strength to tie his pajama pants around his hips rather than letting them hang off of him and ready to fall at any moment. There was sunlight streaming in through the windows, early morning judging by the color and slant of it.

There were dishes in the sink and remnants of whatever meal he’d last had the strength to eat on the counters. Junior froze.

_Don’t worry about that now, s’okay to let it sit for a bit._

Junior forced himself to ignore the mess and instead took determined, small steps to the cabinet where he kept his mugs. There was an angel-winged mug Junior certainly hadn’t brought with him but that he wasn’t going to question sitting front and center in the cabinet, and he took it down. Inside was already a hand-stitched tea bag, also not one of Junior’s but hardly unwelcome.

The kettle was still on the stove. He swiped it, feeling the heft of it as he dumped the old water, rinsed it out, and refilled it. Rather than feeling like too much, it felt good. Happy to be of use, and ready to serve. Junior plopped it on the stove and turned on the appropriate burner, just a quick flick of the wrist. There. Would be ready in no time.

He supposed he could at least gather the dirty dishes into one side of the double sink and brush the crumbs into his hand to throw away while he waited.

_Almost ready, angel, don’t you fret. Biscuits today? No? Toast? Maybe just bread? Bit of butter, some jam, it’ll do you good._

Hmm. Actually, he did have some of the good crusty bread from the old lady who ran a bakery stall at the farmer’s market left…and some of it was even already sliced. Junior picked up two slices and took them to the table, laying them down and haphazardly spreading a pat of butter on each. Did he still have that strawberry jam…? He did, in fact, lovely.

The kettle whistled. The angel-wing mug was filled and the tea steeped. Judging from the aroma, this wasn’t one Junior wanted to put additives in, no matter how much he loved his tooth-rotting sweets. Sometimes it was nice to just let the tea speak for itself. Simple and satisfying.

He took his mug to the table with his bread and stared at his snack for a moment.

_You don’t have to eat, if you don’t want to. At least smell it, warm your hands up on the mug, that’s it. Good, angel. You’re doing so well._

The sweetness of the jam exploded on Junior’s tongue and it was all he could do to keep from gasping.

He lost himself for a bit again, but this time there was background noise, the soft crunches of bread and slurps of tea, clink of mug to table and smack of lips sucking jam from his thumb.

_What do you think, angel, back to bed, or a turn about the garden? Either’s fine, whichever you want. Here, I’ll carry your mug, if you want. No? Great. Come on, then, it’s a fine day out._

The round door opened. Junior’s bare toes encountered the wet morning dew glittering on his grass and a delighted shiver ran up his spine. His plants bowed in the wind as if in greeting, those that were outside, and the cool autumn breeze tickled his skin. He held his mug and sipped his tea and took measured, leisurely steps around his garden, circling the greenhouse but not quite going in yet. Soon. The sun was peeking over the trees in the east and the shadows retreated from its approach. All was golden and lovely and quiet.

“Hello,” Junior croaked, startled for a moment at his own rough voice, but it felt good, too. “Good morning, all.”

Maybe when he finished his tea, he would sit on his back porch in his rocking chair and take in the day. Bring his sketchbook, perhaps. No need to be too ambitious, with the sky so clear and the wind so playful. Junior closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Opening the windows and airing out the house wouldn’t go amiss, either, even if he didn’t make it to the dishes and laundry and myriad other menial tasks today.

_No rush, angel, no rush, go at your own pace, whatever you feel. I’ve got you._

Perhaps he’d call Father and Azirafather today, too. Just to hear their voices.

Junior sipped his tea and breathed.


End file.
